


Two Wolves Within Us

by Golden_Holden



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Blood and Gore, Comfort/Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Heavy gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pheromones, Pining, Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, Transformation, Were-Creatures, Werewolf Arthur Morgan, Werewolf John Marston, Werewolves, werewolf charles smith, werewolf!arthur morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-05-31 15:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19428787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golden_Holden/pseuds/Golden_Holden
Summary: Arthur accidentally killed his mate during the full moon, and now he must live with that.The human wished he stayed dead.





	1. The Scent of Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Been a long time since I've started a new series. I've always been keen on long, winding stories and I think this one will be along those lines as well.
> 
> There will be smut, per my tradition, but it won't be the driving force of my stories. I'll be updating this message with a smut directory as they appear to hopefully lure some of you horny fuckers into the plot as well; which is a much more difficult craft.
> 
> I've always been super into a good Werewolf/ABO dynamics story, and it seems the RDR fandom is sort of lacking in this category. So allow me!
> 
> Lastly, same as before, Aiden is a malleable character. He can be you. He can be me. 
> 
> Tumblr: Goldenholde-n  
> Enjoy!

"Hold on, kid, almost there," Arthur said to the slumped body in his arms as he charged through the brush, bobbing and weaving through low-hanging branches and exposed tree roots. "Almost there, hold on, Aiden." 

Aiden clawed frantically at the big hand clamped down around the side of his neck as bright-red arterial blood escaped through Arthur's fingers in weak spurts. It was hard to discern where the shorter man was wounded with all the gore smeared across his face and mops of hair matted and stuck against their bodies; an inhumane wheezing emanated from somewhere between them.

The shifter's heart raced in his ears, his throat and lungs burned with a vengeance while his legs were melting into sludge, each muscle fiber disintegrating as they were ordered to contract over and over. But he could not stop; no, the notion hadn't even crossed his mind, for if it had, he would have collapse and never gotten up again.

_It wasn't me; it couldn't have been me._

The canopy melded into a slush of green and brown before Aiden's eyes as the first pink glow stabbed through the branches. Aiden's gargling eased up, the fiery pain from his mangled calves numbed as his constricted pupils loosened. Deep grooves on his torso carved out by enormous claws oozed ever slower, the morning breeze tickling them slightly. The hand covering his exposed bowels fell away as he lolled, staring into the sun. Was it his hand or was it Arthur's?

"Nonononono, sweetheart, focus on me, look at me– look at me, don't fall asleep, we're almost there..." Arthur pleaded breathlessly as he squeezed Aiden's spurting neck wound harder, almost tumbling to the ground as the forest abruptly gave way to the familiar campsite. Curious, alert and startled eyes immediately snapped upon them- moments passed before anyone recognized either one of the naked men, soaked in blood. 

"Help...help," Arthur pleaded, not nearly as loud as he wanted. The man saw flecks of a sparkling white swim across his eyes as he fell to his knees, fighting for air. 

"HELP!" He roared.

Snapped out of his horror, Hosea hastily tossed his newspaper aside and ran toward the two. "Ms. Jackson, go fetch Ms. Grimshaw. Javier, go clear out two spaces in my tent, now! Bill, go get all the supplies we've got." The old con man turned to the sound of rustling grass as Javier took off running; even Bill obeyed without complaint. 

"Tilly! Go!" Hosea scolded, yanking the young black woman out of her petrified stare. She absently wiped at her face before grabbing handfuls of her yellow skirt and took off.

"What in God's name happened, Arthur?" Hosea asked, not expecting an answer as he slid to his knees, quickly scanning both men.

"Help him, please," Arthur choked out, his eyes unfocused as he offered up the unmoving body in his arms; his chest heaved painfully fast, smattered with gore, hairs matted down against his dirty skin.

"Mr. Morgan, over here!" Susan Grimshaw shrieked, arms waving frantically. Arthur clumsily climbed to his feet with the last bit of his strength and carried his companion into Hosea's tent. "Down, right here," She pointed at a hastily cleared spot on the ground, clothes, and books shoved away in every direction. The blonde man lowered Aiden onto the carpet, his unsteady arms nearly dropping him when he lost his balance. 

"Careful! Ms. Jackson, hot water, quick! Ms. Jones, get him comfortable." Grimshaw commanded as she jerked up her sleeves. "Ms. Gaskill, I'll need Herr Strauss in here to help." She said, just as Bill trotted back with a beaten wood crate in his hands, vials of blue and green and yellow clinking about. 

The rest of the camp had since gathered around; Little Jack pulled at Abigail's skirt while the woman tried to shoo him away, but the boy had already peeked inside the tent. 

"What's wrong with Uncle Aiden, Ma?" Jack asked, his voice whiny and trembling.

Kieran timidly poked his head through the flaps of the tent, flinching away like a startled mouse when Dutch stormed past him into the small enclosure.

"Someone tell me what the hell happened!" The camp leader demanded after barely a glance at the young man's mutilated body. 

For once, no one paid him any mind; Strauss peppered sugar over the angry gashes across Aiden's torso while Grimshaw sutured the gaping neck wound. The two exchanged a glance, lasting no longer than a fraction of a second; but the meaning was clear; Hosea and Dutch caught on as well and fell silent.

Aiden turned his head sluggishly, staring at no one in particular. He glazed over the faceless blurs surrounding him, their indecipherable whispers doubling and echoing. Their bodies left behind colorful trails of smoke as they swirled around him. His choking gargle had since degraded into the occasional slow, wet hiccup; then even that too was becoming few and far between.

Karen knelt next to Aiden's head, "Here kid, take some for the pain," She said as she pressed the bottle to his pale white lips. Aiden made no reaction to her words, and the brown liquid ran down his smeared cheek, mixing into a stream of rusty red as it soaked into the carpet beneath. 

Fighting back tears, Karen set down the whiskey and reached for his shuddering hand, squeezing, trying her best to ignore how cold they were. "You're gonna be alright, kid, we're gonna fix you right up."

John and Charles had since returned, watching silently behind the small gathering. Their sensitive noses needed no visual confirmation as to what was happening. Men like them could simply smell fear, knowing too well that the scent of fear was never too dissimilar from that of death.

Arthur stood naked amid the frenzied swirl of people tending to his mate to be. His head shook from side to side as he stared down. Perhaps it was the torrent of adrenaline refusing to leave his body, or maybe if he focused hard enough, he'd be able to convince himself that this was all a dream.

"Come on, son, let them work. Let's go get you cleaned up." Hosea's familiar frayed voice echoed for a while before registering. The naked man's shoulder jerked up when a hand landed gently on his back, and he dazedly let it guide him out of the sweltering tent.

Arthur stood glassy-eyed as Hosea wiped down his blood-soaked body.

In the darkest corner of his mind, a hulking black wolf sat hunched up in a ball, scuttling back against its corner as crisscrossing jets of boiling memories smashed against its nose; it whimpered pathetically as an unseen hand dialed up the jets' pressure even more.

His lips were dry, so dry it felt like they'd crack open and start bleeding. But Arthur dared not lick his lips, terrified that he would get another taste of Aiden's blood.

"Arthur– son, look here," Hosea beckoned.

The naked man flinched when a hand reached over to push strands of matted hair out of his face. The furious pounding of his heart finally reminding him that he was holding his breath. The sharp tang of iron smashed him in the face when he inevitably inhaled, and he nearly vomited.

Aiden's comforting, fresh scent was twisted and mutated hideously as it assaulted Arthur's nose. Accusing. Grasping.

"...Son," The voice pulled again, and Arthur slowly focused towards its source, "...Happened?"

The outlaw shook his head. "No– I don't...I don't know," He mumbled.

Hosea frowned, "Was you attacked?" He said gently.

"Did you get a look at their faces?" Hosea continued softly as if he was asking Jack where his fresh-bought saltine crackers went after finding the wrapping underneath his bedroll.

The vacant man shook his head slowly.

Hosea twitched his nose, the fear and suffering fused into the gore had seeped into the air around him, too sharp even for him. But he kept his tone even and tender. "Full moon last night, You think Aiden might've followed you during your shift?"

Arthur shook his head again, harder this time; his dark eyes widened slightly.

"Arthur, this ain't your fault. You told me you thought Aiden was your mate. I was your age once; I know how it is. It can be…hard to keep control around your mate." The older man squeezed Arthur's arm to keep him from drifting back into his head. 

"Do you– does your animal remember seeing Aiden at all?"

"I don't know... I don't remember anything." Arthur whispered, "I just... I was hunting... then there was this smell. We– I couldn't think, it was everywhere. Then next thing I know I was holding him. He was hurt; he was dying." He croaked out.

"Easy now, son," Hosea squeezed harder, to the point of hurting; Pain was about the only thing that could ground Arthur at this point. "Aiden will be just fine, the boy's a fighter, just like you and–"

Abigail came bursting through the flaps. The hand she used to hold up her skirt trembled, strands of black hair waved against her face. 

Hosea saw the young woman's opened mouth and knew what she came to say. He solemnly nodded his approval.

"Arthur! Aiden he–" Abigail looked to Hosea again, then Arthur, her voice stiff and artificially calm, "Ms. Grimshaw said you should come to see him."

Arthur felt his knees giving out.

The small, crowded space was quiet when Arthur entered. No more 'pass me that towel' or 'hold down his arm.' The gang silently shuffled back to make way; Grimshaw's blood-soaked hands rested awkwardly against her skirt, barely touching the fabric. Karen remained on her knees by Aiden's side, holding his hand.

She scooted closer to the edge, gently tapping the young man’s face, "Hey kid, Arthur's here to see you," she half-whispered.

Aiden's blown pupils constricted narrowly, besides that, a wet hiccup that jerked his whole body was the only evidence that the young man was still alive. 

Arthur finally allowed his knees to go loose as he fell to the ground beside his chosen. Whatever he thought he should say died in his throat when Aiden began to turn his head toward him; dark red blood oozed past the hastily applied suture, bubbling.

Aiden opened his eyes with all his might, but they would no longer focus. He stared blankly at the ethereal blob looking down on him. He could think more clearly now that he could look past Arthur's shoulder and see the black hole of nothingness that would come afterward.

 _Weird_. His mind slurred. He could smell the fear and anguish wafting from the blob above him, bitter like wild goldthread. He could smell the regret and it had the astringency of blackberry roots. 

He chuckled at the strange new discovery, but it came out as another gurgle. He then cried, silent tears running down his face again: he had smelled Arthur, not just the sweat and the leather and cigarettes; he could _smell_ Arthur. It was...warm, dry, sorrowful. He wanted to say something, to tell Arthur– someone, how scared he was of the void of death slowly descending from behind Arthur's shoulder, he wanted to tell Arthur not to cry, he wanted to beg for his friends to save him, to thank Karen for her kindness. He wanted to tell Arthur how he really felt, all along. 

So he opened his mouth.

Inhale.

"A...ar..." Aiden tried again, "Ar...thur,"

Exhale. He felt another hand grasp his own, thick calloused fingers squeezing, drops of warm water landed on his face as the flesh-colored silhouette magnified. A drop fell on his eye, but strangely, Aiden didn't feel the urge to blink. He wanted to tell Arthur that he smelled terrific. He wanted to ask Arthur if he was wearing cologne– And who was playing the guitar? It sounds really pretty.

Inhale.

"Arthur...Art......Arthur," Confused, he cleared his throat once more to try again, determined to make his point, as usual.

Arthur called the young man's name over and over, but the blankness in Aiden’s eyes never changed. "Please, sweetheart, hold on– Ms. Grimshaw! Please help him! Hosea... Aiden needs help! Somebody- we need some help here!" He babbled incoherently as his family watched, no one dared meeting his eyes. "Nononono... he's hurt, he needs help." He said to no one and everyone as he tried to hold back the blood seeping out of Aiden's neck.

"Arthur..." Aiden whispered. 

“Arthur…”

He exhaled one last time and drifted off.


	2. Ghostly Purple Butterfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack mourns their loss. Arthur finds out what comes after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, thanks so much for reading. This chapter is being re-uploaded since I made some pretty big changes to it. 
> 
> I hope you like it!

Hosea sighed warily as he stirred the cauldron of stew, the savory aroma of potatoes and venison made him queasy. He ladled up the contents and letting it fall back with a weak splash. Most people he knew with a penchant for procrastination had died young, he mused.

Pearson, the camp cook, had been trying to take care of the loss-stricken pack the best way he can, splurging on red carrots and large farmed Yukons. He even bought a small box of fresh truffles from a westward chef traveling through from New York. 

A large, healthy buck brought in by Charles lie splayed on his butcher's table, its neck drooping loosely over the edge; its branching eight-pointer already sawed off with care. The cook took great care carving the carcass, meticulously slicing off thin, even pieces to ensure the flavor of the venison absorbs into the stew.

"Shit," Pearson muttered to himself as his knife caught a tendon, guiding the blade down a jagged path through a sinewy hind leg and ruining his thus far perfect work. Stabbing his knife onto the block, he gathered the sliced meat and laid them into the soup one by one in a circular pattern with an unfamiliar tenderness. 

It occurred to the pot-bellied man that he was pretending it was red roses in his hand instead of bloody flesh as he laid it around a shrouded body.

Shaking off the thought with a scoff, he straightened his top hat and returned to work. 

Pearson insisted upon himself that each cube of potato and slice of carrot had to be perfectly equal to one another; he can't smell it in the air like the shifters in camp could, but he sure felt it, clinging to his skin like a sheen of stale sweat.

It had been two days since Aiden died, yet the young man still laid in the small tent John and Bill erected. Petals of ghostly violet wolfsbane sprinkled around the perimeter. 

Arthur wouldn't let them bury him; the black wolf snarled at anyone who came close to the tent. The beast would only emerge from his tent at sunset and disappear into the forest.

The pack watched from a respectful distance as the nude man trudged back from the thicket, the sunrise against his shoulders as he ducked into the tent once more. He had with him flowers, red and yellow and pink and purple– bundles upon bundles. 

Molly peered from her cot, wondering if there were any flowers left spared in the Cumberland. Even the serpent Micah had enough sense to leave camp for the time being. 

_The air's too damn thick,_ he said.

Charles was the first to notice Arthur's return, having preferred sleeping by the edge of the woods. His animal within made him instinctually aware of the deadly purple flowers in Arthur's grasp. His keen ears could even hear the faint sizzling as the nectar of wolfsbane scalded the blonde man's skin. 

The towering native looked down at the welting burns on his own hands, the pain from weaving the poison still fresh on his mind; as just yesterday he hung up his purple wreath in front of Aiden's tent.

Mary-Beth had come to him teary-eyed and offered to help, but he declined. The flowers were as lethal to humans as they were to him, and only a wolf could feel the searing pain brought by the flowers that would complete their mourning.

* * *

Arthur drew a deep breath as the flaps fell shut behind him and stumbled to his knees from exhaustion. 

Warmed by a thousand candles, Aiden slept soundly on his wood table, surrounded by a blooming meadow. 

The same firelight carved the deep darkness beneath the murderer's empty blue eyes deeper than ever as he slowly bit down the excruciating burns and stood.

"Hey pup, 'm back," Arthur whispered, extending a burned hand to brush a strand of hair off Aiden's pale complexion. "I got...some more. The kinds you like."

He began laying the fresh flowers down carefully on top of the others, one by one, adjusting each until they caught the candlelight just so. He held the purple ones for last, enduring in their sobering presence. He worked tirelessly, not noticing when the first candle flickered and died, its last tears hitting the ground as it returned to its definite form.

There was no decay in the air, only sweetness, and a whispering. It wasn't right. It suffocated Arthur, made his cheeks hollow out and his back sag. 

Then came a moment of reprieve when he laid down the peppermint on Aiden's arms; leaf by leaf until their pointy ends met atop his folded hands. 

Arthur selfishly held on to the last leaf, pressing it to his nose and inhaled deeply. For a heartbeat, the soothing coolness reminded him of Aiden. It smelled right.

The wind outside sounded like someone's voice, deep and rumbling, then light and full of laughter.

A whiff of a white magnolia's honeyed scent caught his attention– that wasn't right. He circled the table restlessly, head bobbing up and down as he hunted down each offending flower, ripping them out of the stack and tossing them out into the mud.

Satisfied, he readjusted the other flowers and took a deep breath.

No! It wasn't right. It wasn't right at all.

 _Must be the roses, he never smelled like roses._ Arthur bellowed inwardly and ripped those out too.

No. The cherry blossoms were too sweet. _Go away!_

 _No._ The lemongrass was too tart. _I said go away!_

 _ **NO!**_ _**NO!**_ _**NO!**_

Arthur snarled viciously as he snapped the lily stems with both hands, tearing the buds to shreds then hurled it toward the ground.

The whispering was incessant.

The metallic tang of blood on his lips alerted him of his protracted canines. Taking deep breaths through his teeth, he willed his animal back into its cage.

Arthur turned around to the mess he'd made. The dimly lit meadow was now a graveyard of shredded petals and mangled leaves. 

A snapped stem of horseshoe lily clung to its ruptured legs by strips of its own skin, sap drooling out of its mortal wound.

Arthur fell down beside his masterpiece, spittle lining his lips. He fought back the bile rising in his throat as he apologized profusely to the ruined bed of flowers.

_Thats all I do. All I'm good for._

He buried his face in his blistering hands, and he sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed some more. 

Arthur let his weight carry him to his side and curled up in a ball. He bit down on his fist as he heaved, hard enough to draw blood.

He wished that the whispering would stop. Then he wished it would stay for just a moment more.

"I don't know what to do," He replied to the air.

A single petal, purple in color, drifted from Aiden's table. Arthur watched it through his blurred vision as it fluttered like a spectral butterfly, twirling as it descended. Arthur reached out, and the violet butterfly landed on his palm with a savage kiss and fluttered no more.

Arthur heard then, whose voice it was in the wind.

An eternity passed by, the shifter nodded in agreement as he sat up, his eyes softened as slender arms wrapped around his bare chest from behind. Half of the thousand candles have burned out. The other half clung to their melting flesh, silently blinking their horror.

"Hey cowboy," Aiden said quietly, his chin resting on Arthur's shoulder.

The killer sighed in relief as he leaned into the warmth on his back.

"I'm so sorry, pup. I'm so sorry," He said between sniffles.

"It's okay, cowboy, I know you didn't mean to. I ain't hurt no more." Aiden said, peppering gentle kisses along Arthur's neck. "See you got me flowers, huh?" 

Arthur couldn't hold back a light simper, the golden rim of mischief in the young man's tone always tickled him just right. "Sure, thought you'd appreciate it. Seein' that you're always tryin' to make me wear 'em."

They shared a quiet laugh.

"But why do I need so many?" Aiden asked. 

The smile drained off the shifter's face; his shoulders squared up. Another candle flickered and died.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Aiden apologized. He snuck a hand up Arthur's head and gently massaged his scalp. Slowly, the big man sagged once more. 

"Are you really here, or am I just imaginin' it all?" Arthur questioned, his eyes shut as he relished in the gesture of affection. He held Aiden's hand in his own and smoothed out his slender fingers. They were warm and solid, no blur or unearthly glow around them to shatter his hope.

"I think you already know," Aiden replied. Arthur nodded and nuzzled his nose against the young man's palm, submerging himself in his scent. 

"Stay here, pup, stay with me. Please." Arthur murmured, the palm shifted and brushed away his tears. "I won't ever hurt you again. I swear it."

"I can, for just a little bit," Aiden said ruefully, his voice hollower then just a moment ago. He gestured across the room, and Arthur followed. 

Only a dozen candles remained.

"Shh..." Aiden cooed, hands smoothing over the older man's stuttering chest. "I gotta go soon."

The last two candles quivered tiredly; their hanging stalactites bled ever slower as the wick drowned. The warmth behind Arthur's back thinned.

"No. No. No, please sweetheart," Arthur clasped at his mate's hand, a cruel dread thumped behind his eyes as he looked down to see them dripping away. 

"Thank you for being my friend. You've made me happier than I could ever hope." Aiden said, his voice faint and doubling.

"No, don't say that. What's it you need?" Arthur tightened his grip around Aiden's wrist, but one by one, his fingers collapsed and touched his palm. "Is it candles? You need candles to stay? That it? Just– hold on a second, I'll find some, just hold on, stay right there. I'll go get more." His stuttered, his voice was frenzied and rabid. "Stay here. **_Please._** "

Aiden shushed the blubbering outlaw once more, his kisses mere wisps of wind. 

"How...how will I see you again?" Arthur stammered between heaves, his eyes locked on the very last candle.

"You already know that too." Aiden echoed.

The warmth against his back faded, and Arthur was once again drowning in pitched despair.

Then suddenly, there was light once more — faint, reverberating, purple.

"I'm comin', kid. Hold on." Arthur said. 

The purple flower tasted so sweet.

* * *

Hosea at last decided that the stew was cool enough and filled out a tin bowl. The old grey wolf rubbed his aching back as he trudged toward the tent with the purple wreath.

"Oh Charles, would you mind giving this to Arthur? I'm...well, too old to wrangle with you younglings. He hasn't eaten anything since Aiden passed."

Charles nodded and took the bowl.

The hunter carefully lifted the tent flap at arm's length in anticipation of another clumsy swipe. He opened his mouth to speak when none came.

"Arthur, I brought you some–" Charles dropped the bowl. The contents splashing and seeping the gravel a dark greasy brown.

The blonde man convulsed violently on the carpet beneath Aiden as frothy, blood-laced foam oozed from his mouth. His eyes rolled back. His fingers curled inward into claws, and he kicked out his legs wildly.

* * *

Ten seconds passed, and then twenty and thirty, Arthur's clawing at his body slowed as the acid saturated his veins and the agony chipped at his consciousness. His throat burned so hot it turned cold, and the world contracted into a black circle, shrinking smaller and smaller still.

Then, everything was brilliantly white. The shifter was wearing his favorite blue shirt; his work jeans tucked neatly in his boots. His revolver freshly cleaned, silver gleaming in its polished holster. His hands were healed, no more ugly blisters or burns. A lightness in his chest made him smile.

"The hell?" Arthur said to himself as he curiously examined his gun, certain that the weapon was never so shiny. Then he scanned the expanse surrounding him. There was no end in sight, the white glass– was it glass? Whatever it was, it stretched a hundred miles in every direction. 

"So this is what them religious folk been holdin' out for?" He scoffed, "Damn idiots." He trotted around in a little circle. His boot heels clicked loudly as it echoed down the sprawling space.

_Now what?_

Bored of walking toward nowhere, Arthur plopped down and thanked whoever was in charge for leaving him his cigarettes as he fished out the box from his back pocket.

"Shit, good stuff too," He said with a cigarette between his teeth as he squinted at the gold foil letters on the packaging, shielding it with his hands from the brilliant light coming in every direction. Arthur lit the cigarette with a practiced motion and nodded his appreciation toward what he thought was 'up.'

He sat quietly and waited. And waited. And waited.

At some point he must have dozed off, he jolted awake when a hand clasped his shoulder, causing him to fumble to catch his hat.

"Hey cowboy, what are you doing here?" Aiden asked with a confused smile. "You ate the flowers?"

"Aiden- I-"Arthur stammered and nodded, head hung in shame. 

Aiden smiled sorrowfully as he thumbed Arthur’s cheekbones. "That's not what I wanted." He said.

Arthur leaned into the touch, this time, his would-be mate wasn't just a voice from behind, but a real person radiating his familiar warmth and calming scent. 

"You look good." He finally said. He tilted his head and nuzzled against the hand, feeling each knuckle.

"Always," Aiden replied, "I see they cleaned you up pretty good too. I like your boots."

Arthur looked up, "Who's 'they'? What is this place? Is this...heaven?" He asked, the last word sounded silly to him. He wouldn't be here if it were heaven, though the color certainly matched.

Aiden sat down next to him and thought for a moment. 

"I'm not sure who's in charge here, I've only been here two days. Though I suspect that's already longer than usual." 

Arthur tilted his head questioningly, though he was more focused on taking in more of Aiden's scent, pulling him into his space.

"I think this place is a waiting room." 

"A what?" Arthur murmured with his face buried in Aiden's silky black hair.

"Like- like a holding cell, you know? When you get arrested they put you here while they decide whether to send you to a state prison or just drag you out back and shoot you." Aiden said.

Arthur chuckled, "That, I am familiar with." He said. "So, what now?"

Aiden shrugged, "Don't know, I guess now we just wait to get sorted."

A sudden rush of panic coursed through Arthur's veins, crystalizing into ice. He tightened his grip around Aiden's chest so he wouldn't float away.

_What if we don't go to the same place?_

"Don't worry, cowboy; we're probably both going to he-." 

Lights out.

Endless darkness.

Then came pain, burning, screeching, rending pain.

* * *

Arthur snapped awake; his only functional thought was to dislodge the object in his throat. But there was a force holding him still, squeezing his jaws open while the object dug deeper into his throat. 

He fought free of the grasp to his side and vomited over the carpet; the convulsions slowed as he expelled the rotting poison, bits of purple glittered in what thin liquid remained in his stomach.

After his last heave, Arthur fell back down, strands of hair glued to his sweaty skin. Only then did he notice the face looking down on him, black hair draping his shoulders.

"Charles," Arthur rasped, every breath he took burned. His disappointment permeated the air even though his words were barely audible.

"Arthur," Charles replied, still shaking his hand, his skin sizzled as his fingertips corroded into a fleshy red. "You're okay now. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I–" 

"These people need you, Arthur." Charles said, never a word more than necessary. 

Arthur wiped his mouth, and rattled, "Ain't nothing to worry about, was just... I was just a bit hungry is all." Arthur whispered his explanation. Every inhale set his blistering tongue and throat ablaze, punishing him for failing his one simple task.

_Can't even do this right._

"Hm." Charles nodded, neither approving or disapproving.

Arthur didn't care how flimsy it sounded. Anything was better than looking into the face of his cowardice. He knows now it was only fair that he shall live. Live to suffer for his sins. 

His ruby eyes gradually diluted back to the watery blue it was before as he closed them tiredly, trying to hold his breath. The wolf within him whined, its fur smoking.

"I was with him, I saw him," Arthur said.

Charles nodded again, his scent piney and rounded. "Sounds like you were in the spirit world. Some folks call it purgatory. All living things go there when they die. Then the Great Spirit will decide where they go. Sometimes they get sent back to our world if it wasn't their time."

"You brought me back, Mr. Smith. Not some spirit." Arthur rasped tiredly as he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.

The words made Charles' lips curl up. "You were pretty far gone when I found you, wasn't sure I'd be able to."

Arthur nodded, too tired to debate further.

"I appreciate it, Mr. Smith."

"It's time to bury him, Arthur," Charles said.

"No," Arthur replied distantly.

"It ain't fair to keep him here, Arthur. He won't be able to move on."

"I– just give me some more time, I'm not ready yet," Arthur said. He felt disgusted with his selfishness, but he couldn't stop himself.

Charles didn't speak.

"Tomorrow...I'll bury him tomorrow– Someplace pretty, in the mountains, by the lake like he deserved."

_Someplace far from me._

The hunter nodded, "Okay. Tomorrow. Now let's get you back to your tent. Get you some food and medicine for these burns."

Arthur shook his head stubbornly. But he was in no condition to fight with the hulking native.

With his arm slung over Charles' shoulder, He took one last look at Aiden's sleeping form before the tent flaps fell shut.


	3. The Shadow Of a Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Arthur lay the human to rest.

Arthur counted the hairs in the neck of his Turkoman stallion as the animal trotted calmly along the narrow, serpentine road that hugged Mt. Shann. 

The steady clacking of horseshoe against granite helped somewhat with the counting. Yet still, The outlaw lost his place again for the umpteenth time. Arthur hurriedly started anew before his guilt could start buzzing again.

"'M sorry for the ride, it'll get smoother once we come out the other side," Arthur said. The cloth-wrapped figure slung behind him remained silent.

Charles observed quietly from a fair distance behind. After yesterday, the hunter couldn't trust Arthur to bury Aiden alone. The way the weary alpha would occasionally look over the edge longingly only deepened his apprehension. 

"We're almost there," Charles said calmly. The man made sure to speak ever so often to remind Arthur of his presence.

Arthur turned his head halfway and nodded his acknowledgment, then resumed his compulsive counting. 

A crisp _crunch_ suddenly rang in his ears, startling him. It was the sound of cartilage breaking in Aiden's shoulder when he bit into him. 

The outlaw's heart jumped at the sudden flash; his nostrils flared as he counted faster and harder. When that didn't push away the image of claws that shouldn't belong to him curling into pale flesh, he clenched his jaw and began counting out loud.

"One thousand and one. One thousand and two. One thousand and three," He gritted out as his heart thumped furiously in his empty chest. "No, no..." Arthur whimpered as loud panting overtook his own voice, Aiden's wild brown eyes looked back on his red ones as the young man dashed across the forest floor. Arthur was right behind him, slowing down and speeding up to match his pace. It was a thrill in its purest form until his teeth clamped down around an ankle. The heady scent of unadulterated fear almost made the black wolf roll over in pleasure.

Arthur gagged as he was briefly permitted to return to reality.

"One thou...one thousand and four. One..."

_The wolf's tongue lolled out as it watched the man hobble, half-dragging himself away with a trail of blood soaking into the soil; its pointed ears stood straight up as it savored the musical choking._

Arthur fell off his horse, the world pulsed in time with his heart as he crawled toward nowhere. In the distance, there was a voice calling his name, a rapid clacking of hooves.

_The wolf struck again, just as his prey thought he might've given up. The beast tore apart Aiden's other leg, jerking it in sudden, cruel movements as it dragged him back the pathetically short distance he managed to cover. The wolf then sunk his teeth into Aiden's shoulder and flung him onto his back with ease. It observed the prey's expression of terror. The beast's pupils dilated to take in every pore, committing every smear of blood and dirt to memory._

_**Mine. All mine.** _

Arthur vomited over the ledge, expelling the only bowl of stew he managed to hold down since that day.

A large hand smoothed over his back, and for a moment he thought Aiden was here again.

"Easy, Arthur," Charles said in his low voice as he rubbed Arthur's back. "Breathe through your nose,"

Charles' warm touch temporarily dulled the strobing memories, and Arthur felt disgusted by the relief he felt because he deserved no such thing. He deserved to suffer; to be tormented by the memories of his mate's murder by his own claws until he went insane. 

Was he not already?

"I'm dying, Charles. Can feel it." Arthur said as he spat out whatever was left, his arms barely strong enough to support his weight; they trembled under pressure, some patches of skin already scarring, others still raw and blistered.

"You're not dying, Arthur," Charles assured. In truth, he wasn't sure. The hunter had heard all sorts of exaggerations of the symbiotic relationship between mated shifters, especially wolves. 

Except they weren't mated, and Aiden was human. 

Maybe they weren't exaggerating after all; it shook him, watching the strongest alpha Charles has ever known shrink into a shadow of a dog, all within the span of three days. It frightened him like nothing else did.

* * *

Big Valley was a garden this time of year, Charles was sure it was the closest imitation of paradise on earth, the only place he would offer when Arthur couldn't shoulder the responsibility to pick Aiden's resting ground. Pea-green grass rippled like an ocean as isles of blooming flowers grew near a winding stream that joined the Hawk Eye Creek a few miles away. 

All was well in the world.

"Here, let me do it," Charles said as he extended his hand to take the shovel, the feathers in his hair swaying as he moved. 

Arthur shook his head. 

"Just need to catch my breath is all." Arthur huffed as he braced against the vertical shaft, his head drooping against the metal handle. 

Charles waited a moment with his hand out and reached further for the shovel again, prompting a vicious snarl from Arthur as the man jerked the shovel away, defending it like he would a fresh deer. His eyes blinked blood red as he displayed his razor-like canines. A deep rumbling in his throat gave no room for doubt. The beast inside him threw itself against its cage, slobbering with rage.

The hunter stood his ground but didn't provoke Arthur further. His expression was passive, as always. He pushed his scent out toward his companion, assuring him he only wanted to help. Charles' scent was near that of a white pine's, tranquil but unyielding; fearless yet inoffensive.

Arthur blinked several times as if awakened from a dream. The blonde man immediately averted his gaze in shame, his head bowing slightly in an almost _submissive_ apology. The fiery scent of gunpowder curled in and didn't come back.

"Don't need your help, Charles," Arthur mumbled, "I gotta do this." He said and continued his work.

"We can take turns," Charles offered again, his face betrayed no emotion, or so he hoped. 

Something sickly permeated from the sheen of sweat dripping down Arthur's neck, where the skin was thinnest. It irritated Charles' sensitive nose.

"I can't stop, Charles," Arthur whispered in a tone so quiet that humans would undoubtedly fail to grasp. But Charles wasn't human; even so, he had to lean in to hear Arthur's voice. "It'll come back if I don't keep diggin'."

"What will?" Charles asked, his voice equally quiet.

"I keep seein' it happen, over an' over again." He said as he stabbed the dirt like it was an unwelcome memory, rooting it out and tossing the it further than he had to. 

Charles opened his mouth and closed it again. He wanted to tell Arthur that it'll get better. But he wasn't sure it would, the same way he wasn't sure if it was rotting innards he smelled in Arthur's sweat; if he had begun dying the moment his mate breathed his last breath.

* * *

"It ought to be deeper, or animals might get him." Charles pointed out. He sat behind Arthur with his legs crossed as he whittled the little figurine in his hands. He thought about making a cross for the gravesite, but it didn't seem right somehow — his last gift to Aiden- a wooden stag. 

Arthur didn't speak for a while, then replied, "It's what he'd want, to be closer to the sky and water." His blue shirt was soaked through along his back.

Another pang of guilt stabbed between his vertebrae, _how dare you presume what he wants after what you've done?_ The voice in his head strayed further and further from his own, morphing into something darker, something demonic.

Arthur welcomed it. 

It felt right, safe even, to retreat into his cage and let the new voice narrate. 

With tenderness, Arthur slowly unwrapped Aiden's body and lowered him into his shallow grave. Even the chiding, demonic voice knew better than to speak.

The men rode off as the pink sun touched the horizon once more, leaving behind a grave lined with lavenders and regret. On top of the small dirt mound a stoic wood buck stood guard, watching its creator as he and his companion grew smaller and smaller in its sightline until they finally disappeared without looking back.


	4. The Beckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly after a wolf shifter loses their mate, they fall into a state what others call the Beckoning; and their preemptive slaying a mercy in disguise.

Sixteen days have passed since Aiden died; four since Arthur started coughing blood. Rather, four days since he was _caught_. Arthur promised Charles that he'd accept whatever herbal remedies offered if the hunter swore not to tell anyone.

Dutch looked Arthur up and down, who stood in front of him with his jaw clenched, his eyes shifty and unable to meet the leader's gaze.

"You need a doctor," Dutch finally said, his tone uninterpretable.

Arthur fought the immense itching in the back of his throat; his face began warming from its ghastly grey as he held his breath, trying to swallow his cough. "Don't need a damn doctor, Dutch. What I need is work,” he said.

The subsiding cough suddenly rocketed up his throat, and Arthur nearly keeled over. Every wet hack felt like jagged sewing needles being slowly pushed into his lungs.

The old con man standing beside Dutch wrinkled his nose. The distinct tang of blood alarmed him; he glanced at Dutch's lax brows and wondered if humans' noses were really so inferior that he cannot smell the overpowering stench of sickness in Arthur's breath.

Dutch lightly patted Arthur's shoulder as he coughed, asking if he wanted some water.

Finally, the hacking subsided. Arthur slowly straightened up with a subtle gulp that made Hosea's heart clench– the young alpha had just swallowed back the blood his body meant to expel.

Dutch must've missed it.

"You sure, son?" The gang leader asked without curiosity. He shifted like a resting lion, the gold chain of his pocket watch bumped against an ivory button on his red-and-black velvet vest.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I can work." Arthur replied, his desperation barely veiled

"Alright then, Bill's got a tip about a cabin somewhere west of Big Valley. You can help him out if you're feeling up to it."

Hosea stepped forward, a foot between Dutch and Arthur. "Dutch, you can't be serious. Look at him; he's barely standin'!" Hosea's expression a mix of disbelief and anger.

Arthur stood up straighter in affront. "I _said_ I'm fine, Hosea." He gritted, glaring at his mentor.

Dutch upturned his palms and looked at his partner with a pouty frown. Hosea reddened, feeling the animal inside him stir in its long slumber. He didn't speak because he couldn't trust himself not to get physical.

Taking the silent stalemate as his cue to leave, Arthur turned toward his tent with an overcompensating pep. Hosea wondered as his gaze followed, just who the younger meant to fool; was it himself, a fellow shifter who could literally smell pain– or Dutch, who looked like he just might be concerned after all.

The brief frontage melted away when Arthur ducked into his space, immediately falling into the grip of a fit of agonizing coughs. At least this time there wasn't any blood.

Arthur winced away from his reflection in the small mirror stood on a keg, next to his bed. He lathered his face with shaving cream and reached for the razor. His eyes drifted reluctantly to the brass-framed mirror. He only looked upon his reflection out of pure necessity.

Swipe by lethargic swipe, Arthur cleared away his unruly stubble, perhaps for the first time since that day, he can't remember exactly. Or much of everything else those past nine days, for that matter.

His gaze caught a patch of raw, dark pink skin on his forearm in the small mirror; a blister next to it bled a brown liquid that smelled like rotten eggs. Arthur reckoned the situation was similar inside him as well.

His hyper-regenerative biology had slowed to a crawl. Though the juice of wolfsbane prohibited healing, a wolf of his age would have recovered by now.

At some point, he must've nicked himself; crimson diluted into watery white on his left cheek as blood met shaving cream. Arthur dropped the razor, wiped off both and tossed the towel aside. His aching body screamed for sleep, but he refused. He knew he'd only wake up screaming.

Staying awake wasn't much better- the hallucinations were just as vivid as the nightmares.

He saw Aiden everywhere, more often than not bloodied from head to toe. Walking, laughing, calling.

The rest of the pack pretended they didn't notice how Arthur would haul bales to the hitching posts two at a time, way more than necessary to feed the horses, only to haul them back and there again. They pretended they didn't notice how the animals shied away from him. Even Arthur's own mare pulled against her reins to get away from him.

Arthur either didn't notice, or didn't care.

All creatures with a keen nose can smell the maddening, putrid stench of death, akin to yet different from that of blood and gore; Such is why only humans are capable of killing for fun.

* * *

A week ago, John had taken him along for a small-time rustling score. The omega had snuck in the barn with Arthur, already half expecting to fail: horse rustling was usually an indiscreet, bruising affair that rarely paid off. Not only was it a hanging crime, peasants typically valued their horses more than their broods of children– only one of the two could help put food on the table, and thus, they would defend them with equal vigor.

But the goal that day was not money.

While John had expected to fail, what he had not expected, was when they inevitably did, instead of fleeing when the broad-shouldered farmer approached with a scythe to defend his livestock, Arthur shifted. John stood by in utter shock as Arthur's bones snapped and his skin ruptured; in mere _seconds_ , a hulking black wolf the size of a stallion stood in place of his brother.

It was all John could do to suppress his omega's primal panic, the humiliating urge to curl in on himself and whimper until the threat decided to go away.

The horses reared wildly as they smashed their head and hooves against their doors in an attempt to escape from the scent of predatorial rage. The pounding only punctuated the rapid sounds flesh being torn from bones.

Arthur ripped the farmer limb from limb, with the apparent malice of prolonging his suffering by ripping out his throat last.

John jolted back when the screaming finally stopped, and the wolf's blood-red eyes suddenly snapped toward him. The black wolf bared his teeth; the severed head in his mouth fell and rolled under a stall door, out of sight.

John scurried backward with his hands held out, bracing for the attack. He drew his gun, but his usually rock-steady hand fumbled and the revolver fell closer to the encroaching beast. Barely noticing his blunder, John scooted back some more, his pupils constricted into a pinpoint. If the omega had been able to reason, he'd know that shifting and fleeing with his tail between his legs would be his best chance of survival.

Arthur took another step forward, and John could smell the gore in his breath. A thick mixture of blood and saliva drooled from the wolf's curled lips onto John's thighs.

"Arthur, no, wait," John said, his head dipping as low as he could without looking away from the alpha. The black wolf's eyes were wilder than a rabid dog's.

A loud thump accompanied by staccatoed neighing suddenly pulled the beast's attention. Arthur snapped around with a half-bark and leapt into the stall furthest right.

Blood began spraying wildly onto the walls that John could see before the omega had time to exhale in relief. He could hear but not see the animal being mauled, which only served to amplify his terror. The neighing stopped relatively quickly, leaving the horse's brethren to scream in terror of the fate that awaited them.

The squelching sounds stopped shortly after the horse did, a pool of dark, viscous blood flowing from beneath the stall, carrying pieces of pink flesh; impossible to discern what they’d belonged to just a minute ago.

John swallowed down his omega's desperate plead to escape. Shreds of rationality came back to him now that he wasn't facing off the frenzied alpha. He couldn't leave Arthur here by himself, knowing he would kill everything he laid eyes on.

He would be put down. By either the army of hunters who would surely be sent after him, or worse, one of their own.

Wolf shifters rarely lived much longer than their mates for this exact reason. First, they grieved. Then, they raged. Some packs even went as far as to preemptively killing wolves that lost their mates to prevent them from turning on their pack mates. In such a state, even lanky omegas could take down alphas thrice their size.

Such is why wolves called this state the Beckoning; and the preemptive killing a mercy in disguise.

John punished himself for bringing Arthur here. For thinking that perhaps the most powerful alphas could resist the pull of following their mates to the grave. He should have locked him up the way they had Hosea when Bessie had died. John remembered with vivid detail how the scrawny grey wolf had alternated between wildly throwing himself against his cage and slobbering lethargically in a corner for weeks.

When Hosea had finally emerged from his cage as a man once more, he looked as though he had lived a thousand lifetimes in three weeks.

He never stopped seeing Bessie.

* * *

It feels good.

 _Doesn't it?_ The voice said.

Arthur nodded hesitantly as he watched the black wolf lunge on the angry farmer through a pane of smoked glass. The animal held its enormous paw on the farmer’s chest as it paused briefly.

The wolf looked right at Arthur and licked its bloody chops. A grin.

Before Arthur could parse the meaning, the beast had already returned to its work. Arthur looked down at his hands; they felt as though he was squeezing a ball of mud that pulsed frantically against his pinky, even though his palms were empty.

He looked up again and saw that through the veil's distortion, the wolf had one of its front paws planted inside the farmer's chest cavity.

Arthur licked his dry lips and tasted blood. Then, it felt as if he was drinking it down in gulps. In his human form, Arthur never had a taste for raw meat. This time, it was delicious.

The voice was right; it felt amazing. Arthur smiled buoyantly as adrenaline and endorphins coursed in his veins. His heart raced faster than it ever did. He leaned his forehead against the smoked glass in hopes of getting a better view. The wolf on the other side had something in its jaws that looked like a foot. Without stopping, the beast flung the piece to the side and went after its next bite.

By now, Arthur could feel everything the wolf did. He braced himself against the glass as he panted, verging on hyperventilation. God, he never wanted the screaming to stop.

 _Yes._ The voice encouraged.

When the beast had extracted every drop of agony it could from the now limbless farmer, it finally closed its teeth around his throat. The crunching sound and sensation of the man's windpipe collapsing beneath its teeth sent Arthur to his knees. The erection he didn't know he had strained painfully against its confinement.

When they finally gathered themselves from the thrill of the farmer's hissing final breath, a terrible emptiness and dread immediately washed over them. A face he barely remembered smiled in his mind's eye.

What was his name?

"More," He said to the wolf. He didn't want to remember. "I said keep going, goddamnit,"

The wolf hummed.

Through the glass, Arthur saw a man scurrying backwards. The purple scent of fear wafting from his skin sent tingles down his spine. They dropped the severed head and stalked forward.

 _An omega._ The wolf said. Arthur nodded along mindlessly.

"Arthur, no, wait!" He heard the man plead. His voice was muffled as if underwater. But Arthur recognized the voice somewhere; it belonged to a man he knew a lifetime ago.

They snarled, and another burst of delicious panic permeated the air.

"Wait," Arthur said quietly, his brows scrunched up.

The wolf took another step forward, now inches away from the face of the dark-haired man. Two long tapering scars marred his sharp features, now twisted in horror.

His name was John Marston. Arthur knew him.

"Wait, not him," Arthur said.

The wolf looked back at him and growled impatiently while it closed the last bit of distance between them and John, its blood-soaked snout pressed firmly against the omegas forehead. The submission in his sweat was indelible.

"I said, _not him._ " Arthur's tone steeled, hoping the beast wouldn’t sense how thin his resolve was. The wolf snapped around and growled again, venom dripping from the rumbling.

_**Thump.** _

They whirled around. Just as quickly, John Marston's name faded into the background of Arthur's muddled thoughts. They leapt into the source of the neighing. The alpha stood in the corner of the hay-covered enclosure and watched the black wolf stalk in circles around the horse, looking for an opening.

_Yes. So good._


	5. Kill To Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is lost in the Beckoning and attacks John and goes on a wild killing spree.

" _Out of my way,_ " The black wolf gritted word by word at the smaller, grey omega.

Arthur lunged, his spittle-laden jaws snapping as he stopped just a few inches short of John's throat, sending the omega scurrying backward with his tail between his legs– a warning.

The omega folded his ears back and dipped his head again in a show of deference, but moved no further.

" _Arthur, please, this ain't you. Just- think about this for a second, I know you're still in there._ " John pleaded, using his body to shield a woman with a child in her embrace– the nameless farmer's family who had come to investigate the terrible sounds.

The alpha took another step forward to John's left, who quickly corresponded with a step to the opposite direction, using his tail to herd the woman and child behind him.

The black wolf bellowed another warning. Beside him, Arthur grew weaker from holding him back.

"Let's just go somewhere else," Arthur said, a vein in his temple bulged as he strained to hold back the wolf.

"No," The beast responded, his voice teetering. "I want them. _We_ want them." He jolted against his invisible leash with ceaseless vigor, and the man inside him gasped in exhaustion.

Arthur turned toward the barn behind him. All the horses were dead, their blood fused into a river, flowing silently out, carrying flesh and hay. The farmer was somewhere in the mixture, the scent of his death, though faint, was still detectable within the river. The memory of what had transpired within had already dulled, its authenticity drifting between a dream and a fantasy inside a sleep-clouded mind.

Something more solid was coming. Something more terrible.

Arthur's breath labored from not only the constraint of being unable to slaughter his brother and the innocents behind him, but also from the flashes of what he'd done, the madness catching up to him like a snaking fire, urging him to escape; but a shaking hand held the rope around his neck. He kicked and sneered and growled– the flame was at his heels– their heels. So why weren't they running?

Seared, the wolf jolted again, surprising Arthur. The leash he never really held tore loose from his fingers.

Arthur was onto John in an instant.

The two wolves morphed into a flurry of black and grey as they grappled. Growls quieted into grunts as teeth clamped down on flesh. The woman ran for her life with her child in her arms, occasionally looking back to see tufts of fur flying out.

John twisted to dodge as Arthur's muzzle dived for his throat. The grey wolf was large for an omega, his wiry muscles shifting with marked definition as he ducked away from the alpha's mindless attacks. Still, what the gargantuan black wolf lacked in agility, he made up for in speed and sheer strength.

The grey wolf yelped as razor-sharp canines missed his jugular by a hair, and with blinding speed, dug into his shoulder instead .

Arthur bit down hard; John's blood sprayed all over his face. Howling in pain, the omega kicked out his hind legs wildly at the alpha's exposed belly, dragging deep, long grooves in the tender skin, threatening to disembowel the alpha. Blood immediately welled up the wounds and flowed down Arthur's mostly hairless belly.

The black wolf didn't feel it, or didn't care. He continued to clamp down, sending bolts of fire shooting up John's shoulder, who continued to kick and wriggle for freedom.

In one fell movement, Arthur focused all his weight on his heels and jerked back, tearing out a large chunk of meat from John's shoulder. The omega stumbled and dropped to his side with a sharp yelp, the severed tendons still contracting to control his wounded foreleg.

Through half-lidded eyes, John saw his brother toss aside the piece of him in his mouth and padded toward him.

"Arthur...no..."

_This is how it all ends._

The omega breathed in, soft and shallow. The animal within curled up next to John, whose tricep and deltoid had been torn off jaggedly. He tried to soothe the beast, combing his trembling fingers through the grey fur, now matted with blood.

"We did all we could, boy. Did good, against an alpha." He murmured tiredly as he laid down next to the wolf. His eyes fluttered.

The last thing they saw was a shadow, dark as the valley beyond, slowly enveloping them.

* * *

The black wolf bolted through the forest floor at breakneck speed, one with the night. His monochrome vision pulsed in time with his racing heart, the edges of his field of view little more than a watery blur.

The hide of a fleeing doe was locked firmly in the center of his attention, every follicle in razor focus as the animal darted over tree roots and bushes, zigzagging for its life. Arthur left a trail of excited puffs of white as he closed in. The doe broke her silence with a pained shriek as the wolf's jaws caught her hind ankle, the bones snapping as easily as a twig. She tumbled head-first into the ground, pushing forward a small wave of moist soil as her momentum rolled her along her strong neck and finally stopped when she side of her body followed and slammed into a tree with blinding speed.

She felt her ribs shatter, a warm trickle snaking through her ruffled fur told of a puncture wound. Ignoring the pain, the doe kicked out wildly as she tried to stand, her broken ankle dangling.

She froze.

Arthur had been standing in the shadow of the tree she crashed into for some time now, watching; enjoying. He wanted his prey to see him. He wanted her to be terrified and in pain before he tore her apart while she still breathed.

By the time Arthur finally decided to end her, the doe had shifted back to her human form in which she was born. She tried to say something, but the black wolf bit down and tore her throat out before she could form a word. They backed away a few steps to watch the woman die. Her auburn hair pooled around her head beautifully as her green eyes slowly dulled. Blood stopped squirting from her opened chest after a few moments.

A small part of Arthur looked down at the pile of steaming viscera and wondered if he knew the whole time that she was a shifter. Another part told him, yes, and that was why they killed her.

With that thought, the wolf took off for his next prey.

Arthur stumbled back to camp three days later. By then, he was accompanied by an immense choir of agonized cries loud enough that Aiden's was no more than a faint whispering in the violent cacophony.

He slept well that night.

* * *

John awoke on the back of a cart in his human form. The rough wooden surface chafed his skin. His shoulder and arm throbbed savagely in remembrance of what had happened. Groaning, he lifted his head slightly and discovered the wound smothered in a moss green paste; it felt cold with the wind drifting against the moist surface. The omega wondered for a moment if he was spared by what little of Arthur remained in the black wolf, or if someone had stepped in, possibly slain the Beckoned wolf to save him– a hunter perhaps. The thought hurt just as much as his arm.

_Arthur riddled with silver bullets, hobbling along before being held down by multiple men and gouged over and over with blades until he fell still._

No, it couldn’t be. John was a shifter as well, and wouldn't have been spared. More likely, instead of dressing his wounds, they would have returned to put a silver stake in his forehead right after they'd put down Arthur.

So, one of their own, then. That too, made John's head ache with confusion. In his right mind, Arthur's wolf was already incredibly deadly with speed and agility uncanny for an alpha of his size; he was Dutch's trusted enforcer, his greatest weapon, the real gravitational force holding the pack together tightly enough to believe in Dutch's dreams.

Now that he was lost to the Beckoning, the notion of a shifter with the prowess to defeat Arthur was almost funny to him.

Though, there is _one_ man.

With much effort, John craned his neck to look at the driver's seat. Sure enough, in his upside-down view, he saw the signature tangle of black hair draped down impressively broad shoulders. A thin strand by the man's left temple was beaded and tied with two feathers.

John parted his chapped lips to speak, but only dry air left his throat. The driver glanced over his shoulder at the hissing sound and turned his attention back to the road.

"Arthur wasn't there when I found you," Charles said over his shoulder, seemingly plucking the dreaded thought right from John's mind. "You're real lucky to survive a fight like that. Almost bled out right there."

"Don't I know it," John rasped with much effort.

"Appreciate it." He added, after a few moments of silence.

Charles grunted, "Thank Abigail. She came to me saying she's got a bad feeling and practically threatened me with a silver round till I agreed to come look for you. You sure she's human?" Charles said with his usual flat tone, though the humor still shone through.

John grunted, his body relaxed noticeably. Abigail did have a remarkably accurate sense for impending doom. The former camp whore was adamant she was pregnant almost as soon as they were getting dressed after one of their romps. John only scoffed then, but when it became apparent that she was right, it was that much harder to contradict her. Especially when she became dead-set on naming him, an omega in a pack with multiple virile alphas, as the child's father.

John resented Abigail for a long time after that. He thought he'd exacted his revenge by running away, a gunslinger and lone wolf wandering the prairies sounded like freedom in the most romantic sense, except it soon became apparent that what they say about lone wolves were true. He endured the amplified loneliness for the sake of his pride– before a monstrously intense heat finally forced him to return, dripping wet, back into her embrace and admit his submission.

A light shade of berry crept onto the omega's cheek as the memory of his return played in his mind. Abigail working a thick toy into him as she rode him. When John's need proved to be too much even for her, she was magnanimous enough to allow the alphas in camp to help out. His blush deepened with his inappropriately timed arousal as he recalled Bill's weight on his back. The bear shifter rutting into him as he whined with wanton desire.

In the corner of his eye, he spotted Abigail, touching herself with hungry eyes...

Charles cleared his throat, sending John to adjust his tenting member hurriedly. His untimely scent of arousal must have bothered the brown wolf.

John cleared his throat as well, shifting his eyes away when the broad man turned around with an arched brow.

"Sorry...you know how we get...after a good fight," John mumbled, he conjured the image of the slaughtered horses alongside their dead master to subdue his erection.

Charles scoffed lightly. "I thought that only happens when you win."

Before he could come up with a witty retort, John's mangled shoulder sent a jolt of pain up his spine. He winced. The familiar itch of skin stitching itself back together kicked in as his body busied itself with rebuilding. If the wound didn't kill him outright, he'd probably be fully healed in a week or two.

"And she sensed enough to tell you to bring a cart?" John asked.

Charles smiled faintly, "No, but she should have. I took it from that barn back there. Didn't look like they'd need it anymore."

John nodded knowingly, too tired to worry anymore.

Lulled by the rhythmic rocking of the cart, he soon slipped into the depths of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, or those you of you that came back for more of my bullshit lmao, so sorry I'm late with this chapter. Idk I've just not been feeling very inspired to write.
> 
> Also, I've been playing a lot of Overwatch, so theres that. I might be writing for Overwatch soon and serving up some steaming McHanzo :)))
> 
> Hope you like this chapter of gore and hurt. Reuploaded for beta


	6. Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur miraculously recovers from the brink of death. Aiden comes back to life as someone new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like this!

Two Wolves Within Us Ch.06

By a thinning tendril of a stream flowing through the lavender patches in Big Valley, a mound of dirt shivered. The wooden stag resting atop the tiny hill tilted and tumbled down the short slope as the shivering intensified, dragging down with it chunks of soil when finally, a thin hand shot out of the dirt followed by another, both pale as the rounding moon hanging above.

They flailed about before finding purchase on the middle of the bulge and began pushing furiously until finally, Aiden sat up with a deep gasp. His face was nearly purple from lack of oxygen beneath the smears of wet soil and grass. He frantically pushed off as much dirt as he could from his legs before stopping from exhaustion– he had woken from a terrible dream. He dreamt that Arthur hunted him and that he bled out in a tent.

Aiden hacked out the dirt in his mouth and rolled over to his side with his legs still half-buried in the shallow grave. His limbs still shivered violently like twigs in a storm When his breath finally evened, before he had the sense to wonder why he was not in his bed, an overwhelming hunger clouded his thoughts, a hunger that he had never experienced in all his life; he was hungrier than he had been when he wolfed down a rancid apple he found by a stable, likely discarded after even the horses refused to eat it; the night before a drunken Karen tripped over his curled up form behind the saloon, barely more than a skeleton with a hide.

The undead man dragged himself to his feet; everything hurt so badly he was half-tempted to climb back into his grave. The moonlight was too bright, so he shielded his eyes with his hand as he wandered through the stream, the water rose up to his waist at the deepest and if it swept him away, then so be it. An awful smell assaulted his nose; it was sharp and astringent– it _smelled_ green. After clumsily going down on all fours, he confirmed with a scrunched-up nose that the scent was indeed grass.

Confused and annoyed, he got up again. His arms were too shaky to keep shielding his eyes from the blinding moonlight, so he simply closed them. At some point, as he wandered without his vision, he must have fallen asleep.

* * *

It was still dark when he awakened. He scanned his surroundings to find himself in the thick of the woods–the realization of being alone in the wild at night would have terrified him before, but not this time. He sighed in relief as the towering canopy of pine blotted out most of the moonlight. The pines' scent, while obnoxiously pungent, was better than the smell of damp grass and lavenders.

He licked his lips and moaned; only then did he realize he was eating a rabbit– the furry critter's leg still twitched in his hands as he looked down at it. Its belly had been torn open, viscera sliding out of the chest cavity in wet plops. Aiden coughed at the discovery, but couldn't bring himself to gag despite the overbearing disgust that screamed in his conscious mind.

It just tasted so _fucking good._

With his crushing hunger reinvigorated by the metallic warmth in the air, he dug in; ripping and chewing and swallowing whole.

Come dawn, he sagged against an ancient oak with clean bones scattered all around him. Before he drifted into slumber, he managed to count five skulls; the smallest was the size of a walnut, the largest was alarmingly reminiscent of an ape's- except there weren't any apes in Big Valley.

* * *

Hosea wiped his brows– to his side, he saw Charles staring at him with the same confusion and cautious optimism that had been on his mind. In front of them, Arthur lied still in his cot with his eyes closed. His breathing, though still irregular with faint wheezing beneath its current, was much quieter than a few hours ago.

Charles pressed three fingers against the side of Arthur's neck for a moment and nodded at Hosea; his heart no longer thumped with the threat of suddenly stopping forever, and his shoulders eased into the thin mattress as he swallowed somewhat smoothly. Arthur might even be sleeping.

Hosea nodded back, exhaling a puff of pure nerve. He sat down by Arthur's side and said to Charles., "I'll watch him for now, you should go eat something. You look almost as bad as Arthur here."

The tall man didn't move, he looked between the skin-and-bones Alpha and Hosea, expressionless as always, save for the subtle flicker of reluctance in his brown eyes.

Hosea smiled thinly and took Charles' good wrist in his hand and pressed his nose against it– a shifter's way of conveying affection and gratitude. "You've done more than anyone here in camp; It looks like Arthur's gonna make it. It's okay now, son. Go get that arm looked at and come back in a few hours." He gestured at the hunter's right arm, wrapped in layers of white linen, patches of red slowly blooming across the surface; he must have reopened his stitches while he and the others held Arthur down during one of his increasingly frequent episodes of senseless horror and rage.

The old grey wolf sighed as soon as Charles left the tent. It had taken nearly the entire pack to find and restrain Arthur, and not before he mauled half of them in the process. John was still bedridden after almost losing his whole arm in that barn– he likely would've lost more than that, had Charles not gone looking for him. The thought amused Hosea somewhat, and a wave of pride spread across his chest; not many Omegas were brave enough to take on an Alpha, much less one that was being Beckoned.

Wringing out a wet rag in the basin nearby, Hosea folded the fabric and dabbed away the sweat beading on Arthur's forehead. The man was nearly unrecognizable; his cheeks and eyes hollowed so dramatically it seemed as if he had died years ago. Circles of sickly red surrounded the pale grey skin around his eyes. Gently nudging one eye open, Hosea saw that they were still bloodshot, but at least Arthur seemed to be at rest now.

The pack had held its breath for the past week, kept up at night by agonized howls and, occasionally, should Arthur shift into his human form in the middle of his constant nightmare– the horrified screams of a man known for his stoic silence.

The last week before the next full moon determined if a wolf shifter would survive the Beckoning. Hosea knew that all too well– reminded of it every single day, for even more than a decade later, he'd still have dreams of the cage he was kept in after Bessie had passed. Even for his old age, he had not seen more than a dozen make it to the last stage of this deadly affliction. There was no cure, no remedy — no way to ease the suffering. Most would have been granted the mercy of a swift death by their pack mates or walked off a cliff to join their fallen mates.

Arthur stopped sleeping five days ago; stopped drinking or eating two days after that. And by the sixth day before the full moon, he was trapped in a constant, looping hallucination. The grey wolf felt his old heart constrict each time his son smashed his head against the pillow as he thrashed against his bindings. He knew what Arthur was seeing again and again. Hosea could only pray that the cruel gods above wouldn't force Arthur to relive the memories of _how_ it happened as well.

He didn't mean to.

It wasn't his fault.

Pulling himself out of his melancholic spiral with a long sigh, Hosea tried to focus on the positive– at least Arthur had stabilized. And in a suspiciously sudden manner at that. When Arthur abruptly stopped moaning, and his arched back dropped down on the mattress an hour ago, Hosea experienced a moment of pure panic when he thought the Alpha had died. Bill and Javier both looked toward Hosea for answers, but the old shifter was just as confounded.

* * *

Hosea groaned quietly when a big hand tapped his shoulder. He found himself nuzzling against Arthur's forearm, the familiar scent on the Alpha's skin was more like himself now, the agony mostly dissipated.

"I must've fallen asleep," Hosea said, rubbing his tired eyes; his back ached even more than usual from having to sit for so long.

Charles only nodded, "You should go rest. I'll keep watch on Arthur."

As Hosea trudged across camp for a ladle of water, a pair of hushed voices caught his attention.

"You all go through this?" Bill the bear shifter tried to sound nonchalant.

Javier shrugged with an air of uncertainty; he was obviously stressed, for every shifter in camp could still smell the darkening scent lingering in the air. "I guess."

"You ever lost a mate?" Bill asked, twirling his bottle around the circumference of its bottom.

"No, never found one," Javier replied, cautiously. "Or maybe I did, back in Mexico. I was...well, I had bigger things to worry about; then when that went to hell, I had to flee the country. Now, I'll probably never go back," He said quietly.

Javier wondered briefly why he never acted upon his gravitation toward Camila, for there was nothing uncertain about his yearning. Shifters always knew; the moment they lay eyes on their mate, they were bound. Or which he feared more: losing the woman in the white dress that he had been dreaming about since before he was forced from his home, or what would happen to _him_ if he did.

The Beta looked over his shoulder to Arthur's tent and shivered. _Maybe it's worth it to never find my mate_.

Bill nodded sagely, the look in his eyes uncharacteristically understanding, tender even.

"You miss ‘em?" Bill followed.

"Everyday. I had a big family, and after all this time, I still remember all their faces. All their birthdays too."

"You?" Javier asked.

Bill thought for a moment, "Well, I ain't never met many like me, but from what I know, we don't work like that. We don't have the...the ranks y' all do. The men are liable to skip town as soon as their women get pregnant. Never met my pa, though my mama always spoke of him kindly, said it's just our nature to leave, an' she ain't mad about it. I guess what I'm getting at is bears tend to tough it alone. I reckon that's true. I had a feeling when I joined the army that I wasn't gonna see her again– my Ma, that is; turned out I was right, the house was empty when I got back. I wasn't too upset, probably cause I can still feel her. She's alive still, out there somewhere. Better off alone, like I am."

Javier tried hard to imagine what that was like, to return to an empty nest. The mother that nursed and protected him for as long as he could remember just up and left without a goodbye. The notion sent chills down his spine. But Bill looked just fine.

"But you ain't alone," Javier said.

"I know that. But...in a way, I still _am_. You know?" Bill replied with a subtle sadness. "And I guess I'm fine with that."

He wasn't.

Being with the pack throughout the years had changed him. The way wolves talked about love confused him at first, but after witnessing the pack's reaction to Bessie's death, and more importantly, the first time he saw the famed sickness called the Beckoning. A yearning borne of curiosity blossomed within him, one that took him years to understand.

The bear shifter wanted nothing more than to love someone so much that it'd literally kill him to lose them. He craved the pain almost as much as he longed for the sense of belonging. More importantly, he'd never leave his child.

Sensing the wave of emotion toward their side, Bill and Javier turned toward Hosea, who had been standing still for the last few minutes as he got lost in the conversation. He had stopped with one foot in front of the other, frozen mid-stride.

They exchanged nods and turned back to the table. Hosea continued walking, a sudden urge to sob clung to the lining inside his nose, and he walked faster.


	7. We Know This Scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and his wolf are of two minds. Aiden follows a familiar scent.

Two Wolves Within Us Ch.07

Arthur sat up with his face buried in his palms. The tightly packed earth beneath his feet was cold and damp, the same as the back of his soaked shirt. His long unkempt hair- which, already grew much faster than that of humans, thanks to his biology- now draped past his jawline. He sat still for a moment longer, rubbing his temples and carding back his hair before standing to get ready for his day. The outlaw exhaled deeply from his throat, the puff of white that drifted into the chilly morning air stirring a craving for a cigarette. 

The past few weeks had been a blur of red and black; he remembered bits of the slaughtering, remembered the metallic tang in the air as he bounded through the dense heart of the Cumberland, ripping anything too slow to get away. He remembered the dream of the white room, and Aiden’s ghost whispering against his back; though a persistent shiver that accompanied the fragmented memories told him they were more than what they seemed.

He could walk again, and despite his meager appetite, he was gaining weight at a steady pace, thanks in part to his rapidly regenerating physiology and Susan's force-feeding-by-gaze. His hollowed cheeks started rounding again- and if the light was good, one could even say he looked human. But a part of what made him human never came back, or at least, not yet. Arthur felt its terrible vacancy in the core of his bones every second of every day, pulling his heart toward his throat as if he was perpetually falling from a cliff of infinite height. 

Arthur paused for a moment in remembrance and tossed the shirt he was going to put on back onto the wooden rack where it dried overnight. The Alpha crouched down, his left knee nearly touching his chest and placed his hands in front of him as if preparing to sprint. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing a deep, rumbling growl to fill his chest and willed his body to change. 

After a few moments of intense concentration, Arthur's shoulders felt tense, and the discomfort was distracting. So he rolled them around, lifting them toward his ears to squeeze out the tension. Sufficiently satisfied, the Alpha resumed his position with a fake cough and closed his eyes once more, mindful of relaxing his core as he waited for the resonance to wash over him, for his wolf to bound forward and take his place.

Still nothing.

Suppressing his frustration, Arthur tensed his belly and chest, then his arms, then his feet. He felt his fingers and toes digging into the tightly packed earth. The shifter's head began to pound from the lack of oxygen as he continued to push harder. 

If his wolf didn't want to play ball, then he would club it over the head and drag its unconscious body out from its den. Never again would he submit to its will. 

Never again.

After a solid minute of tensing and pushing and angry growling, there was still no trace of the familiar tingling beneath his skin, no thick black fur sprouting from his pores. 

Arthur's frustration quickly spilled over into fury as he rocked back and sat against his cot, angrily rummaging through the dark, glossy hallways of his mind in search of the pathetic beast, planning on dragging him out by the scruff of his neck.

Walking briskly past rooms containing mountains and deserts and cities and lakes, he scoured his memories and senses for his other self when finally, a weak, breathy whimper drew his attention.

**I'm here, idiot.**

Snapping around, Arthur slammed shut the door labeled "Reno, Nevada” and stormed into the opposite room, failing to notice the brass placard on the door was blank. His heart sank when a forest immediately enveloped him. _The Forest_. Shafts of glaring moonlight stabbed through the canopy, sharper than the frigid breeze that snaked along his neck and down his back.

"You done?" Arthur called out at the top of his lungs. "Get your ass out here." He shouted again when there was no reply.

**No.**

The outlaw turned toward the resonant voice that closely mirrored his own, methodically stalking past trees and bushes as he looked for the beast.

"Come out, or I'll make you." Arthur said through gritted teeth, fed up with his own body rebelling against him.

 **I _am_ you**. The wolf retorted, flicking his ruby eyes up when a nearby twig snapped beneath Arthur's boots.

Arthur looked down at the black wolf crumpled in a ball tucked tightly against an angled tree root bulging from the earth. The wolf met the blue eyes of his other self for a moment, his tail flitted a few times as if to say sarcastically, 'yay, you found me.'

Unimpressed, the outlaw narrowed his eyes and resisted the urge to grab the beast by his ears and twist. He knew he wouldn't be able to move him if his other self truly didn't want to– after all, they were one and the same. What he felt was the familiar frustration of reasoning with himself; and now more than ever, he was really, truly of two minds.

"We have a job to do," Arthur said with forced calmness.

**There's always a job.**

"We need to scout ahead, make sure it's safe."

 **No. Its never just ‘scouting ahead’** The wolf turned to point his snout toward the tree, coiling his tail between his legs. **You have guns. You don't need me.**

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but couldn't find a reason _why_ he really wanted to shift, he was perfectly capable in his human form; he had speed granted by his horse; power, from his guns and knives; most importantly, he had the wits and control of a man to guide him through.

He had always been adept at solving human problems as a human himself. So why did he ever turn to his wolf?

The hulking black wolf– now smaller than a large fox– perked up to listen to Arthur's train of thought.

"Because I like it." Arthur murmured to himself. His eyes downcast with shame. "I like killing."

 **Yes.**

The wolf sat with his ears loosely pinned back as he also stared at the ground, sharing in Arthur’s shame.

 **How many good deeds have we ever done?** The wolf asked, his lips unmoving. **How many... have _I_?**

Letting the silence settle, the small black wolf slowly rose to his paws and sniffed Arthur's idle hand as the man pondered his words.

 **I am a monster. I have always told myself that I am needed to kill other monsters. And in the end, we are good... now look at what I've done.** The wolf invisibly gestured at the recreated forest around them. 

Arthur saw splatters of red against the foliage in his peripheral, but when he turned to scrutinize it, it was just a translating shadow.

 **Go. You don't need me anymore.** Said the shrunken caricature of his guilt.

Arthur opened his eyes and let loose a tired sigh.

Now I am neither man nor beast.

* * *

"Arthur! You coming?" Dutch's hoarse voice characteristically broke as he called out. Evidently, the velvet-donning man was intent on putting his enforcer back to work as soon as his broken body would allow. Not that Arthur was unhappy about it; in fact, he was more than grateful for the distraction, though his return to his post was met with no small amount of resistance from Hosea, and a few vicious fights that threatened to turn physical. In his miserable state, even the fraying grey wolf could keep him here by force if he wanted. Not to mention Hosea seemed to have enlisted the help of Charles, a Beta powerful enough to rival any Alpha he'd ever known.

In the end, it took swallowing what was left of his pride to bare his neck and whining at the old Beta to coax out a reluctant change of heart. Arthur might not be a pup anymore, but he never forgot how to use his puppy eyes.

Every step of Boadicea's steady amble sent a dull ache branching up his thighs and hips, but his spirit had never been higher since...since _that._

The sun was warm on his back; and instead of ghostly, hollow screams and coughs he could once again hear the birdsong from the forest that slowly grew smaller behind him. A silky breeze tucked a strand of his chin-length blonde hair behind his ear; as if the land were welcoming his return.

But something bugged him. Something in the air smelled oddly familiar, yet different enough to make the idea of a hallucination plausible. Despite Arthur's effort to simply enjoy the sun and wind in his hair, he lost focus a few times and found himself tipping his head high, his nose scrunching and relaxing as he scented the air deeply. Allowing the breeze be brought to him, he slowly craned his neck to where it was strongest- west. Toward Big Valley.

Arthur hardly noticed when Boe trickled to a stop from his lack of input and dipped her head low, leisurely nipping at the patchwork of fresh grass that dotted the gravelly canyon floor. His eyes were fixed toward the west, scanning over the mountains and lush forests there that never turned brown in winter. His heart rate picked up as he held his breath and cast his hearing forth as an imaginary fishnet, hoping to snatch any clue from the far distance. He had no luck; the faraway verdure held its silence, and all there was for him to lean on was the curious scent that was so familiar it almost had a color; it was soft white. Ethereal like ribbons of smoke snaking toward the trees. Calling.

"Arthur," a deep, reverberant voice steadied him like a hand on his shoulder, and the blonde man turned to his left to see Charles beside him, his grey snowcapped beauty named Taima stood parallel to Boe as she purposely chose the patch of grass that Boe was snacking on, almost as if the horses had their own quiet conversation to catch up on.

The silent, mountainous hunter stared at Arthur with his enigmatically talkative eyes. Deep, layered pools of brown that often made it redundant for him to even open his mouth. Right now, they were alert, yet tender as he waited for Arthur to speak first.

The Alpha swallowed and cleared his throat. "Sorry," He muttered, realizing that holding his breath wasn't the only reason his heart pumped. He quickly darted his head toward the western greenery once more before turning back to Charles, gesturing over his shoulder. "There's just this weird..."

"I know." Charles interrupted. "I smell it too... its..."

"White," Arthur said to himself. Charles’ gaze snapped up, a surprised expression on his face that Arthur had never seen before.

"Yes," Charles answered, his voice betraying nothing.

Arthur grunted, not as gruffly as he intended. "Reckoned I was just smelling things again." He said, referring to the unending hallucinations he suffered just days ago. "You uh, you ever seen anything like this?" He asked quietly.

"No. But it must be important if it has a color." The hunter tugged at his reins, and Taima perked up and ground her hooves, signaling the end of the conversation.

Charles turned back when he didn't hear movement behind him. "We will find out what it is. But now, we need you focused." He assured, succinct as always. Arthur could tell that the native man was trying to hide his worry. He could practically smell it wafting off of him like any other strong emotion, just as he was sure Charles could smell his fretting in return.

That's it. Arthur was feeling worried. Finally putting a finger on the emotion that the white scent brought curling in his chest, Arthur was confounded as he rode on. He had half a mind to talk to his wolf again, maybe convince him to change his mind.

But beneath layers of hypotheticals and fragile compartmentalization, he knew well enough he was only trying to change his own mind. At that, he had never had much success.

Perhaps his wolf was right.

* * *

It had been six nights since Aiden emerged from his shallow grave to wander the forest, naked and alone. He had spent the days hiding like vermin, under whichever rock or cave that would tolerate his presence enough to shelter him from the blinding sun, covering his ears as the screeching and chittering of every waking beast behind every tree and brush drove him to madness. Aiden wished he could stop breathing too; his nose was equally overwhelmed by a hundred thousand scents just familiar enough to make him try to remember, yet each attempt to resolve the blurs and blots in his mind only made the invisible vise around his skull crank tighter.

Without even the strength to dash his head against a rock or drown himself in the nearest stream, all the young man could do was curl beneath the shade of a moss-grown boulder and endure the glass shards being slowly and randomly twisted into his eyes, nose and ears until he would finally be granted the mercy of a short, fitful sleep- if it could be called that. After each stretch of lost time, he'd find himself amongst scatterings of skulls and bones broken jaggedly with their marrow sucked out.

Aiden came to in the center of another uncanny circle of death and destruction, briefly wondering what beast could've carved the ancient pines with enormous claws so savagely as to almost cleaving them in half. His fogged mind haphazardly speculated on how he had survived another attack by this ferocious animal before collapsing once more, only to wake up in another part of this inescapable forest. The labyrinth of rotting logs and puddles and bushes all melded together into a muted sludge of the same picture, with the only way to be sure he had moved in his sleep being the lack of entrails splayed around him when he awoke.

Too drained to have another breakdown, the nude man climbed to his wobbly feet and set off. Hoping this time he'd stumble his way out of the boundless forest whose maw he had walked into willingly. 

The night was more merciful by far, the birds having finally tired of their mindless screeching and whatever unholy creatures that hid in every corner and bush deciding to cease their chitters and growls. Moonlight felt cool on his feverish skin, pleasant even, if not for the jumble of scents that still assaulted his nose, placing with them blobs of color in his vision. Aiden had grown somewhat accustomed to walking with his eyes closed after finding that he much preferred the risk of wandering off a cliff to the constant stabbing pain caused by even the tiniest glimmers.

Wait!

Aiden ground to an awkward halt, turning his head to sample the air with quick, shallow sniffs, a technique which he found was more effective when trying to isolate a single smell. Within the wild, crisscrossing streams of moss and feces and dead water, a distinct scent held onto him by the shoulders, momentarily pulling him above the flood that had been drowning him since he had awoken alone.

For the first time in days, Aiden felt like he could finally breathe. The young man immediately broke down in panting breaths of relief, latching onto the scent like a reed in a storm. Reminded that he still had eyes, Aiden cautiously peeked open one after the other in search of the source. The moonlight still stung, but he decided he didn't care anymore– finding the owner of that wonderful smell was now his life's singular purpose. The nude man walked faster and faster, his heart racing with the exhilaration of a man chasing an oasis that just _might_ not be a mirage. 

A couple hundred paces toward what his now unfamiliar body told him was 'east', the scent grew infinitesimally richer and Aiden nearly wept tears of joy. The fragrance was dark, an earthy blend of brown and black: warm, steady tobacco weaved beautifully with fragile white poppies. The young man paused momentarily to consider how he’d came to know that the soft overture was of white poppies– he had smelled it once before, somewhere safe and carefree. Beneath what he could put a name on, was a musk he both knew and didn't; it inspired bone-deep horror and warm belonging all at once. 

**We know this scent.**


	8. To Keep His Humanity Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aiden tries to escape the forest. Charles thinks about his past.

Two Wolves Within Us Ch.08

Aiden jolted, then stayed perfectly still as he waited for the voice in his head to speak again.

 **Find the source.** The voice rumbled.

The man's heart seized at the voice that resonated through his bones. It was his own– yet it was not.

Aiden leaned against a nearby tree, letting the harsh abrasion of the bark distract him from his rapidly liquifying knees as he urged himself to keep breathing through his mouth.

The voice remained silent.

 _Okay. Okay._ Aiden steadied himself, waiting for his thumping heart to lull just enough so he can form a coherent sentence without the risk of vomiting. Still, the young man tasted a hint of bile in his throat when he finally spoke.

"Who are you?" He asked quietly.

The young man waited for a reply long enough for the adrenaline to drain away and for his body to go limp from the disappointment of not having to flee or fight. Still, no reply came. There was only the sound of his thoughts, tempestuous and frightful– undoubtedly his own. 

Tentatively, Aiden nudged the voice aside as a potential product of an exhausted mind and set out once more to find the scent that reminded him of a warm log cabin.

* * *

Charles returned to his little tent by the tree line and plopped down on the blanket sprawled over the planked floor, careful to not let blood from his wounds stain it. It was the only effect he had left of his mother.

Almost every memory he had of his childhood was traced with blurred lines of soldiers in blue or red or something in between; herding his family away from their home, from one wasteland after another.

The pup was much too young to truly understand what the soldiers and their colors meant then- only that they were bad news. To little Charles, the only red and blue that mattered were red fish in blue waters, frozen in time on Mama's lap.

Charles often watched Mama work on the blanket she had been making for as long as he could remember. She would talk to him softly, telling the stories that she was putting down on the fabric, and the boy would watch, wide-eyed as the blanket miraculously grew wider and longer under the twirls of Mama's fingers.

After the fish and water were brought to life, Mama then created green trees and blue mountains; birds with lighting under its wings and coiled snakes with horns. The blanket grew and grew and grew- and so did Charles.

One day, Mama stopped knitting halfway through the wolf pack howling deep in the forest. Her face was etched deep with worry as she grabbed Charles by the wrist.

"We must leave now." She told him urgently.

Soon, just like Mama predicted, the soldiers came for them again, so leave they did. Except this time, they took Mama away, and he never saw her again.

Papa carried Charles on his broad, speckled back as his son was still too young to control his shift. The lone wolf and his pup wandered the land, looking for a safe place to settle.

One day, they stumbled upon an abandoned cabin, far from where their home once had been. It was long deserted, part of the roof had collapsed, the broken logs rotting before the clay fireplace. It was a long and arduous repair for the speckled wolf and his quiet son, but it beat sleeping in the open or building a new cabin from scratch.

At long last, Charles and his Papa had a new home of their own. They took a moment to be proud of their work, a tentative air of hope warming the space between father and son. Brushing off the dust from the cabinets and basin, Papa found a few bottles of whiskey, waiting for them like Sleeping Beauty's spindle.

Papa drank the whiskey and bought more. When what little money they had was gone, Papa hunted animals and sold their pelts for drink.

At first, Charles thought he drank because he missed Mama, and drinking did seem to help: Papa wasn't so angry and sad when he had half a bottle in his belly, and sometimes he'd smile and talk to him like he was talking to his lost wife. Slowly Charles realized that Papa drank not because he still missed Mama, but that he didn't know what else he _could_ do anymore, other than being oblivious and guilty.

Obliviously guilty.

Charles started hunting almost as soon as he could shift. He worked himself ragged to feed Papa and buy him the drink he needed to keep living. The lanky little wolf ran amongst the trees day and night, summer after winter and summer again. In time, he grew stronger and faster and more ferocious than any Beta could have ever hoped to be. When he leaped, trees and bushes bristled with fear, for no other beast was his match.

He sold pelts by the dozen, each more beautiful and perfect than anything the villagers nearby had ever seen. The trappers leered in jealousy whenever the one they call the Young Wolf stepped into their small market, another haul of cured skins of brown bears, white elks and cougars. The tall boy barely ever spoke and demanded little for his pelts. He brought meat for the poor families and wood for their fires when snow was too deep to tread.

Papa got worse and worse– and the more Charles earned, the more he drank. The more he drank, the sadder he became. Anytime Papa wasn't drinking; he was a wolf, his fur patchy and coarse from being ravaged by alcohol.

Charles would often pick up the drunk, sickly animal, and put him into their only bed, covering his father with Mama's unfinished blanket; the half-wolf where the threads hung loose looked a lot like Papa. And for a few minutes, the old wolf would relax and stretch out, nuzzling his nose against the fabric and wander in the same illusion that he needed more and more whiskey to afford.

By the time he was sixteen, there were no bears left in the forest he called home; no elks or cougars. One day, the muscular young man returned home with just a single bottle– it was all he could afford from his poor hunt.

Papa wasn't home. Charles looked down and saw his father's clothes pooled by the door with his shoes hastily shucked off. He then saw Mama's blanket folded neatly on the dining table and knew immediately what had happened.

The young shifter left the cabin behind and set out alone. He traveled east and west, taking odd jobs and errands not to feed himself, but to keep his humanity alive, as his mother would have wanted. Charles never once thought about looking for his father, because some small part of him knew with certainty that he would never be found again.

Charles did, however, continued to search for his mother as well as his purpose in life wherever he roamed. The longer he went on, the bigger and more desolate the world became.

The childhood impossibility of a person simply disappearing into thin air inside his tiny world quietly grew into a commonsensical knowledge that, once some things are gone, there is no getting it back.

Now, the blanket on the floor was the only proof that Mama had ever existed at all.

The heavy canvas flaps fluttered, and a head of dark-blonde hair poked in. "Arthur," Charles greeted.

"Charles, mind if I come in?" Arthur asked.

"Course not." The tall hunter replied, already making room.

The Alpha sat down heavily with a grunt and pointed toward Charles' bleeding arm. "You need to get that looked at, it's supposed to be healed already." He stated, his arms already rummaging through his satchel for the ointment he made. "Here, I made this just the way you said." Arthur uncapped the beaten tin, tilting it toward Charles for him to see the dark green grease inside.

The Beta watched Arthur cradle his arm and clean the long gash that ran the length of his forearm with a wet rag before applying the ointment. A subdued wave of shivers ran down Charles' spine as Arthur's rough fingers traced along his wound, unerringly gentle. The blonde man's intent focus on the task at hand allowed Charles to stare more openly. He felt safe– no– protected, whenever the Alpha was around. It was a foreign, but not unwelcome sensation for him, both as a man who had himself and only himself to rely on all his life, and as a Beta without any natural inclination to seek or provide safety as an Omega or Alpha does.

"More folk are mixin' silver in their weapons; we got to be more careful... not that I'm one to talk." Arthur commented as he worked to apply another layer of the ointment to the area surrounding the gash that glowed an allergenic red to the silver blade that cut him. The Alpha glanced tentatively at Charles, trying to glimpse his inner workings, as usual.

"You wanna talk about that scent you picked up earlier?" Charles asked, plucking the thought from Arthur's mind with such ease, it felt unfair.

Arthur cleared his throat as he twisted the cap on the tin. He wasn't sure how to say yes without sounding too desperate, without saying it has been the only thing on his mind since he first caught a whiff of it.

"Sure, I was just... just thinking' it might be interesting to check out..." Arthur said hesistently, l"Might be worth some money," The Alpha quickly added.

Charles shook his head slightly at Arthur's attempt to beat around the bush; it was strangely endearing. "Arthur, the scent had a color to it, right?" He spoke calmly.

"Well, yes, it was–"

"–White." Charles said. "My mother once told me if a scent we don't know has a color, then it must be very special to the ones smelling it." He scooted closer into Arthur's space, feeling the anxiety wafting off his skin like heatwaves. The Alpha was grateful for the Beta's calming scent that surrounded him like a blanket; his pounding heart relaxed some.

Before he could stop himself, he felt the top of his head touch Charles' ear. Realizing his mistake, he jerked away from the contact, only to be stopped by a big hand gently cupping the back of his head.

"It's okay," Charles said, graciously looking forward instead of at Arthur's flushed cheeks. The hunter gave the mess of blonde hair a firm nudge toward himself and felt Arthur’s heat against his neck, faint at first. The pleasing warmth against the thin skin of his neck grew stronger as Arthur gradually relaxed into the contact, burying his forehead there.

The black wolf growled from within his cage, displeased by Arthur's submissive posture– curled up against another wolf, nuzzling their neck for comfort and safety like a goddamn Omega.

Arthur told the wolf to go fuck himself.

"It's okay," Charles said again, his arm smoothing down Arthur's neck to squeeze at his tense shoulder. "Even Alphas can be vulnerable sometimes."

Goddamn it, it was so unfair that Charles could read him like an open book while Arthur had no clue what was hiding behind those brown eyes.

But whatever it was, it was gentle and good, so he let the thought go. Arthur relaxed further when Charles purposefully pushed out his scent more, a mixture of pine and moss that felt cool and soothing against his heated skin.

Allowing himself to grow drowsy from the foreign but not unwelcome sense of being protected, Arthur took in Charles scent in deep breaths, the last of his instinctual shame went away with his consciousness.

In the stopgap between lingering guilt and dreamless sleep, he heard Charles speak. "Rest now, we'll go look once night falls."


	9. Waxing Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The full moon is coming.

Aiden heaved as he ground to a halt, propping himself against a tree to catch his breath before his lightheadedness dragged him to the ground again. He recoiled in pain when he scratched his arm, the skin there already raw and bleeding. But even worse than the pounding in his skull and sapping ache all over his body, was the itch in his toes and fingertips, intense yet unable to be scratched. Stray beams of moonlight snaking between the canopy burned against his back, forcing him to shift just enough to hide from it before sliding toward the damp forest floor, utterly exhausted. He could not remember how much distance he'd covered, but reckoned it wasn't far at all. Breathing was harder than it was last night, harder still than the night before.

He was getting sicker with each passing moment, the spark of being miraculously alive flickered like a candle in the wind as the shadow of returning to his grave loomed long and desperate. Sagging, he rested his eyes for a moment, knowing well enough at this point that he won't find any sleep, not until it decides to find him. He took in a labored breath and focused on his other senses to dull the ache permeating his entire being.

The forest was growing...antsy. It was the only word he could think of. The birds droned on in an unending concert well past the time Aiden had chosen to travel in its absence. An electric current sizzling in the air made the hair stand up on the back of his neck; even the little stream that always burbled in the distance seemed to flow with more urgency. Guided by a strange pull, Aiden licked his lips and hazarded a glance in the direction of the waxing moon, where the energizing current was most potent, before immediately flinching away, groaning as he felt the light sear his retina.

"Fuck," He hissed as he rubbed his eyes, realizing belatedly how out of breath he was. His heart drummed like he had too much coffee.

_What was-_

He didn't get to finish his thought. His mouth locked open in a silent scream as every nerve ending was set ablaze, pain shooting up and down his spine. He couldn't breathe, couldn't make a sound as the spiked vice around his chest crushed tighter. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he sucked in breathless gasps. Veins bulged in his neck and temples; his face faded into a bright red. He keeled over face-first into the mud, no instinct to stay upright cushioning his fall. Curled fingers clawed at his skin, trying to rip open the skin and dig out the shards of glass writhing in his chest.

Finally, the torture relented, and he instantly began gulping down air as fast as his ravaged body could manage. His clawed hands went limp and fell to the ground, fingertips stained with blood and dirt. He lolled his head, unfocused eyes masking the scattered mind behind it, searching for answers.

What happened? Will it happen again?

He got his answer as soon as he formed the question. The naked man felt the pain wind up again, quickly crescendoing into another whirlwind of agony. Aiden thought he heard a voice- more like a screeching, dominating, but it was gone just as abruptly as it appeared, washed away by all-encompassing punishment, leaving him with nothing to hold onto.

He felt his ribs crack. Then another. His vision started to double as blood roared in his ears. Something was trying to rip its way out of him. He held his breath and endured it, for there was nothing else he could do.

Slowly, the second wave of torment, the more vicious one by far, receded. It left him tired and breathless, sobbing weakly at its shores.

Aiden pushed himself closer to the tree trunk, carefully tucking himself away from the venomous moonlight as his heaving sobs smoothed.

The last thing he had the strength to examine before the encroaching darkness consumed him was his naked torso, two long meadows of sickly yellow and blue blooming side to front.

* * *

Arthur awoke with a groan, one hand still on the tender spot between his neck and shoulder, the other hugged his chest tightly; the phantom pain from his dream lingered for just long enough for him to doubt its spuriousness. He quickly dropped the postulation when he realized he wasn't in his own tent.

"Bad dream?" A voice asked with a calm timbre.

Arthur lifted his head just enough to confirm who it belonged to before laying back down. He was just resting his eyes, or so he told himself. "Yeah, something like that."

"Remember much?"

"No, not really," Arthur muttered what just happened to be the truth. Like most dreams, he could already sense it disintegrating into an echo of what it was only moments ago. Try as he might to preserve it somehow, the forest in his mind's eye blurred into a slush of green and brown, the sear of moonlight against his skin abated into an imagined tingle, and soon no trace of the dream remained beside the flitting notion that it had been a deeply unpleasant thing.

Although, something felt different about this dream, the same way many things did since he recovered from the Beckoning. The throbbing of the illusory wound between his neck and shoulder had mostly subsided like the rest of his nightmare, but he could still feel his pulse beneath the reddish skin, his body attempting to repair something that wasn't broken.

"That's good," Charles said as he continued with his task, thumbing shotgun shells into a bandolier Arthur had never seen him use.

"What time is it?" Arthur asked, eyes lazily focused on the lone oil lamp on the table.

"Late," Charles answered. "You should get ready if you want to get there anytime soon."

Arthur exhaled deeply, tiredly as he scrubbed his stubbly face with both hands. He grunted his acknowledgment as he passed by Charles. It was raining outside; a somber drizzle swayed hypnotically like a beaded curtain. Arthur appreciated its frigid sting on the back of his neck as he trudged through the camp, listening to the wet mud squelching beneath his boots. Most of the pack had huddled up in their tents, faint firelight seeping through the gaps in the fabric. Even through the rain Arthur could still smell the scents coming from inside them, some of alcohol, some of content. He could feel waves of warmth wafting from them, brushing his cheek as he walked past.

Toward the center, Tilly poked her head out, squinting to see beyond the reach of her oil lamp, wondering who would brave the icy weather at this hour. Arthur stood still, his reflective eyes fixed on Tilly as he waited for the human girl to register him. "Oh," Arthur heard Tilly exhaled beneath her breath, the rancid odor of pity emanated from her direction as she followed him with her rueful eyes.

Arthur stomped on, a nameless fire sparking in his chest as he ripped open the flaps to his tent. His mind fogged with the memory or Tilly's gentle, sorrowful gleam as he thrusted handfuls of supplies into his saddlebag. Arthur hated how well he remembered it, how well he remembered the smell of sympathy. He neither wanted nor deserved nothing of the like.

With his saddlebag slung over his shoulder, the outlaw headed toward the horses, the graceful beasts stood aloof in the rain, as if unaware of the stinging cold that had begun to bother Arthur, whose ire was a flame that he did not want extinguished even though it burned him.

The horses paused their chattering to glance at the newcomer, the more skittish few of the herd whinnied and scampered to the side, putting some distance between themselves and the feral predator currently wearing a man's skin. Arthur scoffed lightly, some of those horses would lean away from him even at the best of times, and he could hardly fault them for following instinct. It was inconvenient however, the instinctual fear horses have for him made it far too challenging to find a reliable horse - the lifeblood of any man in his profession.

Arthur ducked his head to see through the flitting skirts of the other horses before finding his darling, Boedacia. The mare stood unshaken, intelligent brown eyes barely sparing Arthur a glance to acknowledge his presence. The Alpha chuffed to himself, Boe's indifference to his past and present lightened his mood somewhat.

* * *

Aiden gasped as he burst through the waters of his terrible dream. He tried sitting up only to have his body abruptly disconnected from his brain, leaving him on the ground writhing in pain. The bruises running along his cracked ribs had pooled into one massive blotch of purple and blue, nauseating pain persuading him to lie still and die. Powered by what little was left of his defiance within, he very gradually got up from his side, careful to keep his torso straight. He felt the familiar wooziness of standing up after a long sleep as blood rushed away from his brain, momentarily giving him hope for another abrupt plunge into darkness. Alas, darkness did not come, and he must keep wandering. He no longer remembered where and to what end, not "out" or "safe," just any other place than the earth he stood on at that moment. _A phantom of the forest,_ He mused to himself, _forever in agony and unable to die, doomed to wander the woods until he had forgotten his name._

Just as soon as he determined that he already wasn't far off from the unpoetically romanticized version of his quagmire, there came hope. The Scent! Days after he lost the trail of his only hope, a whiff of the fantastic smell drifted right against his cheek. He immediately took in a deep breath, rejoicing in the realization of how much stronger it was, how close, and how warm. It spoke to him without words, promising safety and clarity. His eyes welled with joy, and he walked toward it. His body ached more intensely, pins and needles stabbed into the tips of his fingers and toes, muscles in his arms convulsed painfully; but he almost didn't notice. He walked forward with conviction, trading more pain for more of the black-colored scent that he could practically see. For once, he was in agreement with the stranger hitching in his head, his cryptic tormentor hummed impatiently, wanting to move faster.

"Ow," Aiden winced as a particularly sharp burst of involuntary movement twisted his shoulder unnaturally, but didn't slow any. He willed it to subside, telling it to piss off, and it did. He needed more, to find _it_. Before he even noticed it, he had started onto a light jog. The massive bruise on his chest and side retreated ever so slightly, blue and purple folding into a sickly yellow that turned lighter with every step he took.

It was close. So so close.

**Author's Note:**

> Always leave a comment if you enjoyed the chapter! It puffs my chest up and reminds me of why I write!
> 
> Tell me what you want to see happen next!


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